


Seduce, Swear, Slay

by primeideal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Game Of 'Fuck Marry Kill' Somehow Becomes Legally Binding, Accidental Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-10 19:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19911172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: When a teammate's hex goes awry, Viktor finds himself racing to undo the consequences of the spell.Well, maybe not all of the consequences.





	Seduce, Swear, Slay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/gifts).



When Peigi Kinnaird sat down next to Viktor Krum in the locker room, he figured he was in for it. The gregarious Chaser was a talented athlete and an unselfish teammate, but she could be a bit...overawed at times. He got enough hero-worship from the media, he groused to himself; did his teammates at Montrose have to get in on it, too? If he wanted a cohort of teammates that couldn’t match his skill, saw him as a wunderkind rather than a fully-grown equal, he’d have stayed at his home club in Bulgaria. The food was better.

But rather than gush over his latest feint or interrogate him on the secrets to his success, Peigi was curious about more distant history. “Is it true,” she said, “that you met Harry Potter?”

Viktor blinked. “Yes,” he said.

“When he was young, I mean.”

“Briefly,” he said, hoping Peigi would take the hint. The Triwizard Tournament had seemed a great thrill at the time—riches to be won, exploring British food and wandering through Hogsmeade, practicing his English—but the rise of Voldemort and his headmaster’s treachery had soured the year in retrospect. He was fortunate enough, he told himself, to have Quidditch and the fame and glory he’d earned there. Better not to wish for too much more.

“What was he _like_? He and—you would have seen all the heroes of Hogwarts, then? Weasley and Granger and Longbottom and the others?”

“Small,” said Krum. “Good on a broomstick.”

Coming from him, of course, that was high praise indeed. Peigi gaped for a moment, but pressed on. “And you knew the others?”

“Not well,” he said. He’d been taking classes with the seventh-year Slytherins, none of whom were malicious or competent enough to be part of Voldemort’s inner circle, but many had been lackeys in the Ministry who were all too happy to comply with Pius Thicknesse’s regime.

“Oh,” said Peigi. “I was just wondering…”

“Yes?”

“If they played _Seduce, Swear, Slay_ at Hogwarts, even back then.”

“Come again?” Viktor asked. His English was very good, but every once in a while his teammates made allusions that went entirely over his head.

“You know. The Muggle game, where you have to choose who you would marry, kill, and, uh—sleep with—if it came to that.”

“That is a children’s game,” Viktor said. Yes, there were children who probably joked about _him_ in their hypothetical situations, but that was a mental image he would keep far from his mind.

“So?” Peigi shrugged. “So is Quidditch.”

“I do not see athletes making hundreds of Galleons by predicting who would marry who, given the chance.”

“Maybe they just don’t play for high enough stakes.” Peigi took out a long quill from behind her ear, toying with it absently as it doodled on her skin. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“ _Would_ you? Potter, Weasley, and Granger?”

“Which Weasley?” Viktor answered instinctively. “The one on Holyhead?”

“No, her brother, Ron. But you do have opinions!”

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to kill any of them,” Viktor pointed out. “So I’d probably try to do Potter in, he’d find some way to survive. Then I’d marry, uh, Granger.” Hermione had been kind as well as brilliant, seeing him for just what he was—not merely a Seeker or a rival, but a young man far from home. She had better things to do than keep in touch with him, of course. Reforming centuries’ worth of magical prejudice and bureaucratic backlog was more than enough work for any witch. But if any witch could handle it, Hermione could.

“And then I’d shag Weasley. He is hero-worshipping me enough, it’d be awkward but we’d get it over with.”

“Brilliant,” Peigi giggled. “I always knew you had taste.”

“Not a word of that leaves this room,” said Krum.

“Of course.”

* * *

Viktor was used to a barrage of owls assaulting him at unreasonable hours of the morning. Fans craving autographs, his sisters in Bulgaria fretting over him, cranks asking him to sponsor their Double-Shafted Broomsticks, the madman at the _Quibbler_ hoping for an interview. The Ministry owl, however, stayed in the back of the flock and did not leave despite Viktor shooing her aside. No doubt demanding he pay taxes on a salary the Bulgarian Ministry had already taken a cut of, or asking him to revalidate his Apparition license. Yawning, and blinking back the annoying sunrise, he took the offered scroll.

_The Ministry of Magic has registered the official union of Viktor Krum and Hermione Granger. We offer you our most sincere congratulations._

He took a moment to recall the previous day’s conversation, and chalked it up to some prank of Peigi’s. He hadn’t figured her to be industrious enough of going to the trouble of finding a Ministry owl to make it look official; he’d have to tip his cap to her at practice.

Except…

Slowly, as if being disinterred from under a centaur’s hooves, a memory worked its way back to the surface. Ron Weasley, giddy and triumphant after betting on Montrose several months prior. Weasley and his mates in the Hog’s Head, reminiscing on a vibrant but terrible past. Weasley buying him a drink to celebrate, then another, then—

Well. He hadn’t expected the great war hero to have had so _many_ freckles, in so many places.

Viktor swore, and then Apparated into the Ministry.

* * *

Viktor had never been a particularly superstitious athlete. While his teammates had exacting rituals about which cleat went on first or never shaving during a winning streak or listening to the same wireless music before the game, he was content as long as he’d eaten a decent breakfast. Yet as he crossed the Floo hub foyer, he found himself silently pleading: _don’t let Weasley be on duty, don’t let Weasley be on duty_.

Maybe Potter would be there. Yes, that was more like it. Potter would be alive and well and annoyed at the disruption, Peigi would have...done some crafty memory modification, and he’d just have to check himself into St. Mungo’s for a day or two while the _Daily Prophet_ staff panicked about his health.

Luck was not on Viktor’s side. When the elevator deposited him into the Auror office, there was Weasley, looking about as startled as Viktor felt.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Viktor said. “Er, very sorry. Has Potter come into the office today?”

“Er...no,” Weasley said. “Can I help you?”

“I am afraid he may be in danger. I...my teammate, Peigi Kinnaird, has cast some powerful hex and everything is...all wrong. You understand?”

Weasley looked him over, in what Viktor could only hope was confusion and not checking him out. “Are you saying she’s broken the law?”

“You can go ask her yourself. But find Potter first, make sure he’s okay.”

“Right,” said Weasley, turning and Apparating without another word.

Viktor trod back to the elevator. Montrose were off, but he had no desire to go back to his flat, nor to sit in the Leaky Cauldron and sign autographs while he anxiously wondered what had become of Potter. The Muggle world, then. He could pick at tasteless food anonymously.

He only half-noticed that the other visitors in the elevator were not returning to the main floor, but to the Department of Magical Creatures, as he joined the exiting throng. He did not want to see Granger, he told himself, did not want any more evidence that what had taken place was somehow real. As beautiful as she was.

“Viktor?”

It was her. A lilt in her voice, more perplexed than taken aback.

“Hello,” he said. “I am hoping you are well.”

So many more important hopes! That Potter was alive, that Peigi hadn’t created a scandal, that whatever was done was not irreversible. Yet for the sake of niceties, if nothing more, he began with simple greetings.

“Were you responsible for my owl this morning?”

He sighed. No evading the obvious with her. “Not, er, directly. I think one of my teammates was playing an elaborate prank on me—on us—but someone ought to check on Potter just to be safe.”

“Well, it’s more entertaining than my usual influx of nonsense. What does Potter have to do with anything?”

“The Aurors are on it,” Viktor said. Not that he’d stood a chance anyway, but if he really wanted a date with her, “I may have inadvertently gotten one of your best mates killed” wasn’t a very impressive opener.

“Have you checked the Records Office yet?”

“The what?”

“The Department of Magical Records,” she said. “If your friend _did_ manage to register a legal marriage and this isn’t some silliness with owls, it’d be on record already.”

“It was a Ministry owl.”

“Owls can be ‘borrowed,’” Granger noted. “As my colleagues have learned the hard way.”

Viktor turned to the elevator as if Weasley would burst out of it at any moment telling him that there was nothing to worry about. It remained unresponsive, doors closed on the rise and fall of bureaucrats. “I’d appreciate a pointer, if you’re not too busy.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Granger, immediately hustling across the office. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how slow the Wizengamot is to sign off on even the most basic werewolf rights...”

Viktor, who would in fact believe that most governing bodies were not up to Hermione’s standards, let her voice roll over him as he followed her past the rarely-used subdepartments of Cauldron Regulation and Telescope Testing to a desk that looked as if its legs had recently been shortened.

“Hello, Mistress Hermione!” piped up a house-elf seated on a pile of cushions behind the desk. “How can Minda be helping you?”

“I’m not your mistress,” said Hermione. “Would you be able to access records of magical marriages carried out in the last two days?”

“With pleasure!” The little elf jumped off her stack and turned to a wooden file cabinet, gesturing with her hand as drawers opened and closed at her whim. Moments later, a parchment floated out, and she grabbed it.

Minda’s eyes went very large, or as large as they could get for her small face. “Mistress Hermione! You did not tell me you is being married! And to Seeker Krum no less! Many congratulations!”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Viktor snapped, then remembered Granger’s long hours knitting socks, her concern for the house-elf employment situation during his year at Hogwarts. “Ahem—I would like it very much if you didn’t tell anybody just yet.”

“Minda is obligated to share this with any witch or wizard who comes searching,” she said apologetically, “because Minda is a good employee. But Minda will not be gossiping with lazy elves from the Transit branch, no no!”

“That’ll do. Until we can get this reversed.”

“Reversed?” Granger echoed.

“Whatever Peigi did—I’m afraid it’s dangerous. To Potter, I mean.”

“Pity. At least now we both have ready-made excuses if some adoring fans come breathing down our necks.”

“I highly doubt the sort of sorcerer who’d cast anything to get to you would be deterred by a marriage certificate. Even one on file at the Ministry.”

“Well,” said Granger, “it is nice to see you again, even in—unusual circumstances. It’s been too long.”

“You’ve had things to do,” Viktor pointed out. “And I’ve been...”

“Delighting Montrose fans? Exploring wizarding Britain? Feinting to deke out Riley in the Holyhead match?”

“You were watching?”

“Listening, actually.” He must have seemed surprised—he had not taken her for a Quidditch fan—because she went on, “There are lots of old fogeys around the Department who like to have the matches on, and I’d rather not antagonize them _too_ much before I submit my revised bill on elf liberation.”

So it was background noise, then. A good reminder of all he amounted to, next to her.

“Besides,” said Granger. “I like listening to people do—do what they do _well_. Reminds me of what we were fighting for. Something tangible.”

“Even if it’s frivolous?”

“Especially if it’s frivolous! I wouldn’t want to have overthrown Voldemort just to—copy lines from a Defense textbook all day.” She smiled as if at her own private joke. “I might not know my Portree from my Puddlemere, but I can tell you’re phenomenal. Everyone knows that.”

“I’m past my peak,” he muttered. “Young Seekers fly best.”

“What’s a spouse for, if not to cheer you up?”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “I am going to murder Peigi with a Beater’s bat.”

* * *

Viktor did not have the opportunity to murder Peigi with a Beater’s bat, mostly because she was not at the following practice. It gave Theresa Walpole, one of the reserves, the chance to fly with the others in her stead. Theresa was tense and desperate to prove herself to coach Ahmed, and the rest of Montrose were trying to be supportive and help her fit in.

It was too normal, too rote. Did no one know what kind of havoc Peigi had created, or did they not care? He marvelled, not for the first time, at the fact that Granger and Potter and the others had survived the war with so many uncertainties around every corner.

He tore through his mail once he got home, much to the frustration of some sensitive owls who pecked at his fingers, in search of—what? An embarrassed note from the Ministry saying “never mind all that”? A remorseful confession from Peigi? Wedding gifts for his flat?

But as he sat down to dinner, he was startled by a voice in his fireplace. “Viktor?”

“Granger?” He whirled to face her image among the flames. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to inhale, mostly, what kind of design is this place?”

“It’s modern,” he protested. “Muggles like it, aren’t you supposed to be a reformer?”

“Of creature rights, not transportation.”

“Right,” he said. “Any news on Potter?”

“Harry, yes. Are you free? Can you come to St. Mungo’s?”

“What does it look like?” Viktor retorted. But then he told himself Granger could only see a fraction of the flat, distracted by the innovative chimney. “Yes, of course.”

“Come by. We’re in room 307.”

The wizard on duty in the reception desk had clearly been having an eventful week, if the rushed arrival of Potter was any indication, and Viktor Apparating in did little to slow that down. Viktor signed the visitory registry in his usual rushed scribble, and the wizard stared at it as if curious whether he could smuggle it out for his collection.

Viktor ignored his dilemma, taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor. Granger was there, with a gaggle of Weasleys crowding a Healer who looked mildly put out at the intrusion on her personal space, but remarkably level-headed for dealing with a roomful of celebrities.

“Healer Monaghan seems to think it’s some variant of the Draught of Living Death,” Granger explained briskly. “Obviously Kinnaird can’t have dosed him with it from afar, but some dark hex that has similar effects. They’re brewing up a cauldron of Wiggenweld Potion, just in case.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Viktor asked.

“Then we’ll try something else,” she said.

For a moment he envied her genius, her quiet confidence that some charm or counterspell existed. Was that how the rest of the world regarded him, convinced there was nothing he couldn’t do on a broom?

“Am I going to have to have my memory modified?” said Ron Weasley. “As, uh, odd as it was to meddle with time or whatever that way, it was...”

“Pleasurable,” Viktor filled in. “Not something I would be in a rush to repeat, but pleasurable.”

“Ugh,” Ginny Weasley said. “Can you two get it over with before Harry wakes up, please? I don’t want him passing out again.”

“Sorry,” said Viktor.

“Besides,” Ron said, “Viktor wouldn’t cheat on our Hermione.”

“Are you telling _everyone_?” Viktor demanded. “The last thing I need is—”

“The last thing you need,” Granger interrupted, “is Harry dying on our hands and Rita Skeeter getting word of it. Everything else, we can handle.”

“We?”

“You’re family.” Granger shrugged. “Legally, anyway, and Harry’s as good as my brother, so, I reckon you have visitation rights.”

“Then we absolutely need an annulment before any of the Weasleys get themselves banged up, there are so many of you!”

Ginny winced. Had he hit a nerve?

“I apologize,” said Viktor. “I only meant to say, Granger seems very close to all of you.”

“We’re friends,” said Ron. “Best friends, but she doesn’t come running every time Percy knots his shoes together.”

Percy, was he the one in the Ministry? There were entirely too many people in the cramped room as it was, and Viktor longed for the pitch, where at least the jostling crowds remained at a lower elevation.

The crowding was exascerbated by the arrival of a portly wizard who seemed to take no notice of the celebrities sharing the room with him. “Out! Out of my way, I say!” he demanded, and Viktor was pushed to the side, Granger close up against him.

The wizard handed a odorous cauldron to Healer Monaghan, who began poking at it with her wand. “Well,” she concluded, “can’t make things much worse.” With that, she unceremoniously scooped a ladleful into Potter’s unresponsive mouth. Then another, and a third.

A few moments later, Potter began to twitch and splutter. “Bloody _hell_ ,” he summarized. “WhrmI?”

“St. Mungo’s,” responded Monaghan. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Lucky the same antidotes work so well for nasty hexes and poisons,” countered the Potionmaster, who if anything looked annoyed that his services were no longer necessary.

“I don’t remember...” Potter trailed off. “Ron? Who hexed me? Did you get the blighter?”

“Technically, one of the Montrose Chasers, and she’s in custody,” said Granger. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“ _Montrose_? They’re not even the ones under investigation for match-fixing.”

“You’re lucky to be alive, mate,” said Ron fervently. “Was a bit touch-and-go there.”

“Does this mean I _can’t_ be killed? I was hoping to see my parents and loved ones again, just in a few decades’ time...”

“Oh, no,” said Granger. “The Unspeakables already looked into that, they’re quite convinced you’re mortal. Kinnaird is just less of a Dark Artist than a flyer, more the better for you.”

“The Unspeakables?” Viktor shook his head. “You really do think of everything.”

“Viktor Krum is in my hospital room?” said Potter. “Maybe I’m still comatose.”

“I’ll get out of the way,” said Viktor, hurriedly stepping into the corridor.

Granger followed a step behind.

* * *

The hospital hallway was wide enough to push carts or levitate forms through. It couldn’t help being indoors, but it was a fair sight more freeing than room 307.

“I’m sorry if I bothered you,” said Granger. “I just thought you’d like to know as much as you can, as soon as possible, so you could move along.”

“Move along. Yes.”

“I’ve got an appointment tomorrow morning with a Norwegian fellow who has questions about dragon conservation. Can you stop by the Ministry at lunchtime?”

“What for?”

“They’ll want your signature to cancel the marriage license, I suppose.”

“Oh!” Viktor laughed, at ease for the first time in several days. “I was about to say, your cafeterias cannot be that nice.”

“Why, Viktor,” said Granger. “Would you have preferred a lunch date?”

“I realize you are very busy,” he said, trying not to blush. “Surely you have other things to do than play along with silly athletes.”

“Me?” said Granger. “You’re the celebrity, I’m just a rabble-rouser trying to push changes my department doesn’t approve of.”

“Do not sell yourself short, Hermione,” he said, taking care to pronounce each syllable the way she had stressed so long ago.

She smiled. “Your English has come very far, hasn’t it?”

“Living in Montrose now, it is easier to practice.”

“Yes,” she said, “and not so far away.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe,” said Hermione, “we could—experiment—with being married. See if Kinnaird’s charms were better in the love-match department.”

“I would like that very much,” said Viktor. “Would you like to get dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Have a toast to Harry’s recovery. And to the Magpies’ luck.”

“And to ours.”

“To ours.”

If this was what married life felt like, Viktor decided, he would have to give it a serious try.


End file.
